


He Has Forsaken Us.

by Theboys



Series: Dear God, It's Me, Dean [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha Sam, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Omega Dean, Protective Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-17
Updated: 2015-07-17
Packaged: 2018-04-09 17:42:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4358363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theboys/pseuds/Theboys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean’s alright if he dies here. More than okay, really. It’s a nice night. No graves nearby, and honestly, he always pictured his death to be far more gruesome.<br/>Wherein Dean has to accept help, and does a piss-poor job of it.<br/>Read Where is your God, prior, for context.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He Has Forsaken Us.

Sammy’s gotten bigger.

Dean’s glad to see that his lizard brain is still capable of noticing such mundane facts, despite the ardent desire to submit, the primal urge to proffer himself to Sammy. Let his little brother take care of him in this most, aboriginal of ways.

Instead, his knees jitter under his body, and he sends a snarky, “Hey Sammy,” in his brother’s general direction.

He shrugs internally.

Basically anything is better than what his body is clamoring for.

He’s being hauled up to his feet, none too gently, he might add, and so he rips his burning flesh away from his brother’s tight grip. “Offa me, Sammy.” He can see his brother there, better in the light, see the way his incisors are slightly cutting his lower lip. Watches as the wounds heal themselves almost instantaneously, only to reappear a few seconds later.

“Maybe I just want to know what my big brother is doing in Palo Alto, in a fucking alley, smelling like a goddamn wet dream.” Sam’s breathing is heavy, and Dean shuffles back a step, aware of what his potent scent must be doing to the kid.

“Sam. Sammy. Sam,” he grits out, wanting to heave his brother into a hug but wary of just what that contact might cost him.

Sammy’s stalking forward, and it’s a shame there’s not another word to describe his gait.

He’s gonna get raped by his little brother, he thinks wildly, green eyes darting everywhere but at Sammy’s hazel (they’re black, now, Dean) eyes.

“Sammy. Sammy man, you gotta listen to me. Your fucking wolf-brain’s making you think I smell like sex on legs.” Dean chuckles weakly. “I get it. Hell, I am sex on legs, don’t blame you there.”

Sammy’s close to having him boxed in, and Dean can scent his temperature shift, growing hotter as his brother centralizes in on his target.

“S’me, Sam. Dean. Pain in the ass? Couldn’t fucking wait to go to your fancy school in California and leave me--us all behind?”

Dean grimaces at himself. Goddamned bitch heat got him talking out of his ass. Talking about feelings and shit. Dean shoots up another quick prayer for God to strike him down, quickly, he’s averse to the idea of feeling pain sent directly from heaven.

He’s sure, with his track record, God’s got a special sort of smiting power saved up just for his benefit.

Sam’s stopped moving now, and his enormous fists are clenching and unclenching by taut sides, and he’s shaking his head so violently Dean wonders if he can give himself a concussion that way. “Dean.” He finally says, incisors retreating back into his mouth, eyes still black as hell itself, and that’s not concerning at all.

“Dean, I can’t leave you here by yourself. You’re--” he pauses, as if it visibly wounds him to continue, “you smell like breeding.” Sam braces himself against the brick wall in the alley, and Dean wants to shout at him to move his hand, fucking filthy wall.

Dean’s 98% sure he’s losing his mind.

“Dean, I can scent you from here. You’re confused and fuck, so’m I, but we can’t figure it out here.” Sam shoots him a glance.

“You got a room?”

Dean scoffs, and then boldly steps forward, knees buckling as a fresh wave of slick slides down the inside of his pants leg.

He can tell the instant Sammy smells it, his back becomes as rigid as a board, his breathing alters briskly.

“Look,” he says tightly, not facing Dean.

“I gotta call Jess, tell her I’m not coming home tonight. Tell her I ran into an old friend. Something. Should I tell her it was you? Probably. Better to be honest.”

Dean isn’t sure what he’s supposed to be doing, cause Sammy doesn’t seem to be talking to him at all. Dean lurches forward, another unsteady step, and puts his own hand on the wall, in much the same place as his brother.

His brother’s on the phone now, voice rising, then dipping low, in apology.

Dean grunts, forcing the other leg in front of him. “S’m,” he bites out, jaw tight, pulse clicking in his flushed throat. “Sammy. I got it. If I c’n just get to the damn car--”

His entire body lurches backwards so suddenly he’s almost back to where his slow ass progression to the sidewalk began in the first place. He groans. Jesus fuck.

Sammy’s almost on top of him, tendons standing out in his arms, sleeves rolled haphazardly to tan elbows.

“Get in the goddamn car Dean. Tell me where you’re staying cause I’m driving.”

Dean opens his mouth to cuss the little fucker out, as if he's driving Baby, just because he’s been gone for four years doesn’t mean the world's changed that drastically and he gets a free pass--

so logically, he meekly pulls his keys from his back pocket and starts dragging his apostate body to the _passenger side_ of his own damn car.

Dean could never go through another heat in all his life and be the better for it. Of course, this heat is trying to end his life prematurely, so maybe all his problems will be solved regardless.

Sam plucks the keys from his hand, almost reverently, as if he knows the cost Dean’s had to undertake to get to this point.

For one, brief, shining second, Sam stares directly into Dean’s upturned face. “Thanks Dean. Thanks for not fighting me on this.”

Dean prays that the abrupt accelerated flare of heat is due to his biology and not in any way connected to the praise Sam just hand-delivered.

As Dean slides, uncomfortably, into his side, he wonders why he’s doing so much goddamned prayer tonight.

Sammy looks at the car devotedly, runs his hands over the leather interior, flexes bigger hands over the steering wheel. Adjusts the seat with a decidedly superior glance at his brother.

Dean subtly attempts to adjust his hips. “Don’t get used to it Sasquatch.” Sam’s smile is bright like Christmas morning and Dean forcibly recalls that this is the way Sam used to get his way all the time. Dean doesn’t miss that.

He doesn’t.

Tells Sammy the general direction to the motel, pleased that he can remember anything at this point, considering the fact that his dick is valiantly trying to spread its wings and fly away from his fucking crotch.

Dean’s hand curves over it mindlessly, and the immediate rush of pleasure has him tossing his head back in an embarrassingly loud moan.

The Impala swerves gracelessly, and Dean jerks his head to the side, pleasure warring with disdain for Sam’s subpar driving skills. “Really, dude?” Dean mutters, right hand still firmly gripping his dick.

Sam’s teeth are showing in a slight snarl, and Dean’s body ignores his screaming mind as he exposes his neck in a show of submission. _Soothe the Alpha. Calm him down._

Sam’s head snaps to face his, smile curving his face as he takes in Dean’s posture. “M’sorry Dean. I can’t, I’m not sure how to control this. I’ve never, I’ve never been around a ‘mega in heat before.”

Dean grunts in acknowledgment. Well, goddamn, he’s never been an omega in heat before, but he’s not out here acting like a Neanderthal, virtually forcing his brother into submission with well-placed looks and aromatic scents. Dean’s mind shifts unwilling to the cesspool that his ass is rapidly becoming.

He twitches involuntarily in his spot, and watches in fascination as Sammy’s hands tighten so hard on the steering wheel they’re quickly becoming abusive. “Ease up, man. Gonna damage the wheel.”

Sam jerks the car into the parking lot with a wild laugh.

“The car, right now Dean? When you’re gonna ruin that fucking upholstery with the way you’re leaking everywhere?” Dean blushes.

Fucking blushing. Is he growing a vagina down there, too? Is that what all this is about?

“C’n fucking wash it, Sammy.”

But Sam’s not beside him anymore. He’s ripping open the door to the passenger side and dragging Dean out with one free hand. Problem being, Dean might be past the ability to so much as walk, because he tumbles directly down to the ground as Sam releases his arm.

Dean’s alright if he dies here. More than okay, really. It’s a nice night. No graves nearby, and honestly, he always pictured his death to be far more gruesome--and then he’s in the air.

Cradled.

Dean Winchester is being cradled like this is a harlequin romance novel and, dear Lord, Sammy is the hero.

“Put me the fuck down, you overgrown string bean.”

Sam’s laugh rumbles underneath him, sending waves of pleasure rippling through his body.

“Sure, princess. Just as soon as we’re in the room. So you might want to tell me which one’s yours, cause I can hold you like this all night, if I have to.”

Sam’s smile quirks up as he looks down fondly at Dean. Dean, whose stubbornly refusing to look anywhere near that obnoxious hair. Arms crossed like a petulant two-year old.

“14C.”

Dean turns his face away, then body tense and aflame, all at the same time.

Can feel his body jostling as Sam moves them both to Dean’s temporary home, and all he can think is that somehow, he can’t call Sam ‘Sammy,’ in his head right now. 


End file.
